


take my hands and follow me into the sun

by hanshaped (Herra_Sombra)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: (because we'll always have paris), (especially in the later chapters), (so happy to finally use that tag!), (though not in the way you might expect), Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canon Dialogue, Canon Disabled Character, Chess, Chess Proposal, Depressed Charles, Dialogue-Centered, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik Being Gentle and Affectionate, Erik Has Feelings, Erik is a Sweetheart, Introspection, M/M, Paris - Freeform, Post-X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), Roleswap, X-Men: Dark Phoenix (2019), and how charles might recover from all those issues that he struggles with, essentially what happens after that scene, ish, with a lot of comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 22:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20713643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herra_Sombra/pseuds/hanshaped
Summary: “Charles.” Erik’s voice is tender, yet unyielding. “You can read my mind.”Despite the reassurance, Charles hesitates, which clearly doesn’t go unnoticed.“I’d like you to,” Erik adds firmly, his fingers slowly starting to draw comforting patterns over Charles’s dry skin.As little as it is, this amount of physical contact is enough to make shielding from Erik that much more of a bother, so Charles eventually just lets go, his consciousness instantly washed over with Erik’s thoughts. They are as serene as Charles expected, but there is also a different tinge to them, one that he didn’t really pick up on before.Affection.—A story, inspired by that beautiful scene at the end of XMDP, exploring how Charles and Erik's relationship develops from there, and how this development helps Charles to sort out his issues and finally find his peace.





	take my hands and follow me into the sun

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah.  
Hi, everyone.  
Took me long enough. In my defense, I initially intended to post it all at once, but—as it keeps happening to me lately—the story has gradually become longer and longer, so, in the end, I decided to divide it into four parts.  
I hope you'll enjoy it. I tried to explore Charles's state of mind more, because I doubt he was completely alright at the end of XMDP.  
As always, it's proof-read and not beta-ed. So, I'd be grateful for any and all comments.  
  
The title comes from the song _Where We Come Alive_ by Ruelle.  
  
The name of the café comes from [this tumblr post](https://miss-melodypond.tumblr.com/post/185448182072/i-think-that-everyone-needs-to-know-that-at-the) by miss-melodypond, because I couldn't help myself.  


> _ You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the risks. That’s the burden. _
> 
> _ Like wings, they have weight, we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens that make us better than we are. _
> 
> _ Burdens which allow us to fly… _
> 
> —_ Bones_, season 4, episode 26

The Old Friends Café is a truly pleasant spot, which Charles has quickly taken a liking to, what with its accessible location and tasty treats. He’s been coming here almost every morning since he arrived to the neighbourhood. Thanks to the mild weather, he could sit outside and observe pedestrians rushing in various directions, the soft hum of their thoughts surrounding his mind and drowning out any bleak images overflowing from his subconscious.

It has become a sort of a ritual of his, a morning coffee among passing people who have no idea who he really is. Quite refreshing, to blend in without the need to use his ability. That’s one of the reasons why he decided to leave the US and head somewhere else. Perhaps it was in an attempt to run away from the past, from his mistakes; to run away from what he is. As futile as that running fundamentally is, Charles finds himself strangely content, lost in the bustle and vibrancy of the City of Lights.

He tries to smile when a waitress places his coffee in front of him, but part of him knows that this smile is just a shadow of what it once was. Despite his great efforts, he cannot muster enough enthusiasm to radiate joy like he used to; he simply lacks energy for that these days. Even the usual politeness of his tone sounds off to his ears, as if an ill-fitting mask started to slowly slip down his face.

It is truly ironic, how what made him the Professor in the first place—his focus on others, on their well-being, his compassion and how tuned in he tries to be to everyone’s feelings but his own—has essentially become his greatest downfall. He’s come too far, flew too close to the sun, and paid the price for it, greater than he could ever imagine.

The memory of the colourful flowers scattered on the freshly turned earth, bathed in the unrelenting cold rain, is as vivid as if he was still looking down at what was left of one of the people he cherished the most—his sister whom he thought he had got back, only to lose her yet again, long before wooden splinters could even slice through her chest. Even so, it isn’t only her death that has broken his heart, shattering it into a million small pieces.

Charles looks down at the cracked, uneven pavement, not even fighting the urge to compare it to his pathetic emotional state. Although he finds his mind constantly drifting in every feasible direction, a muffled, yet relentlessly suffocating sense of guilt is always colouring even the most idle of his thoughts nowadays. After all, it was his fault that they lost Raven, what with his recklessly desperate attempt to prove to his sister that he respects and trusts her opinion. It was his fault that Jean started wreaking havoc, his actions bringing her to her breaking point and his efforts to help her only making things worse. It was his fault that Hank left, feeling raw, wronged, and seeking vengeance. It was his fault that he didn’t notice those soldiers earlier, too occupied with Jean to realise he should find a way to stop them from capturing all the mutants.

None of that would’ve happened if it hadn’t been for him.

That was why he left. He was tired after years of keeping the school going, surely, and after the fiasco in New York his reputation has been tarnished forever, yet those reasons alone wouldn’t have stopped him from staying with his family, if only he was able to look them in the eye. He couldn’t do that, not with the knowledge that it was him who tore this family apart.

His departure from the mansion was rather unceremonious, as if he were leaving only for short holidays rather than retiring completely. Many students bid him goodbye, unaware that they probably won’t see him again in a very long time. It pained him terribly to leave the children who had grown on him so much over the years, yet, as egotistical as it might’ve been, he didn’t have the heart to admit to them that what he was actually doing was running away.

Even Hank, though their relationship has still been a little strained ever since the Jean Grey incident, tried to talk him out of the retirement idea, honoured with Charles’s wish for the scientist to become the new headmaster, but rather unwilling to take his place. It took Charles a while to convince Hank, but he just couldn’t bear it anymore. Looking at Scott trailing forlornly around the mansion, at Ororo trying to keep the team together and step into Raven’s shoes, at Peter doing his best to bring Kurt’s humour back, at the children’s enthusiasm remaining somewhat subdued after the threat of the school being shut down; it was all too much for him, the relentless whispers flooding his mind and only amplifying the grief-fueled darkness lurking in its corners.

Hank eventually relented, although he insisted on driving Charles to the airport after he unsuccessfully tried to fish out from the telepath where he intended to go. Despite Hank’s good intentions, born purely out of concern for him, Charles couldn’t afford anyone knowing his destination, foolishly so, perhaps. Not much of him has remained in the mansion, and that is precisely what he wanted, with the school having the name changed and being under the new management. He even briefly considered altering everyone’s memories, so they would have hardly any recollection of him; he decided against it in the end, however. Nevertheless, it hasn’t made him feel less of a coward, roaming the busy streets of Paris in an attempt to fade into the background, to become nothing more than another nameless face in the crowd.

In the aftermath of the Jean Grey incident, it initially seemed that the mutant cause was lost, but they somehow managed to sway the government from taking any drastic measures, what with the main threat being “neutralised.” The damage to the mutant perception in the eyes of the general public has been done, however, and although many haven’t supported the idea of the mutant confinement centres, the discourse has quickly become exceedingly mutantphobic.

There’s a bit less hostility in Western Europe, as there has been no incidents here, which doesn’t mean, though, that people are not fearful. Therefore, it is the most reasonable not to attract any attention, even if the vicious voice at the back of Charles’s mind mocks him for hiding. It isn’t the world he’s fought for, but it’s the one he wakes up to in the wake of his mistakes.

With his jaw set firmly, Charles eventually reaches for the cup. He’s come here to forget, not to dwell on what is left of his aching heart, so these thoughts are really of no use to him. He reigns them in, perhaps for the thousandth time, his gaze boring into the smooth, dark surface of his coffee. However, before he manages to do as much as raise the cup to his lips, he feels something, a small, familiar tendril of thought.

A presence which he isn’t sure he’d like to feel right now.

For a moment, he can’t help but entertain the idea that maybe it’s just an illusion, conceived in the depths of his lonely mind. It wouldn’t bode any good for his sanity, and yet Charles would rather not face the possibility that Erik is indeed here. Although they didn’t part on particularly bad terms, their history having seen much more hostile farewells than that one, their relationship just isn’t what it used to be, even though after everything that happened, Erik has appeared to be less distant and perhaps even willing to rekindle their friendship.

What a twist of fate that it was Charles this time who shied away from this connection. It seems, though, that Erik is more unrelenting than the telepath expected.

Charles braces himself, unable to stop a sigh from escaping his lips. His body is tense as he watches Erik pass him and walk casually toward the other chair at the table. He places a folded chessboard on the ground before he sits, while Charles puts the cup away, pulling a saucer a bit closer to himself.

Erik seems to be quite relaxed, looking more put together than in the aftermath of the battle, when they saw each other for the last time. There’s a small smile curling on his lips as he asks, “How’s your retirement treating you?”

So different is Erik’s demeanor from the coldness that Charles has come to associate with him, that the telepath cannot stop suspiciousness from blooming in his mind. It doesn’t seem right, to see Erik so calm—so serene—when Charles feels like his own mind resembles one huge beehive. There’s only one way to confirm his suspicions, to see if what Charles interpretes as blissful indifference isn’t in actuality a completely different emotion, but he refuses to go anywhere near Erik’s mind, even if it leaves him at a significant disadvantage. 

“What are you doing here, Erik?,” he says instead of acknowledging the man’s question, not bothering with any pleasantries, not even trying to hide his reluctance.

His clipped tone does little to deter Erik, however. “I came to see an old friend,” he answers simply, his eyes trained on Charles’s face thoughtfully. Charles tilts his head, but doesn’t say anything, which Erik apparently takes as a cue to continue. “Fancy a game?,” he offers briskly, glancing down at the chessboard next to his leg.

Charles follows his gaze, and then crosses his arms, leaning slightly away. Normally, he would never say no to a chess match, especially with as challenging an opponent as Erik can sometimes be, but he doubts his game would be any good now, what with the whirlwind of not only his own, but also all the other people’s thoughts threatening to consume him.

“Not today, thank you.” A meagre sad smile crosses Charles’s lips and he looks away, his stare once again fixated on the pavement.

Despite his greatest efforts, however, he cannot simply ignore Erik’s presence, not when it brushes against the edges of his mind, surprisingly comforting in its tranquillity. Charles barely suppresses the urge to dive inside, to drown in Erik’s consciousness and forget about everything else, so he quickly strengthens his shields.

He can see out of the corner of his eye how Erik leans in, resting his elbows on the table. He’s thoughtful for a little while, before he looks up at Charles once again.

“Long time ago, you saved my life and you offered me home,” he says firmly, and Charles can’t stop himself from glancing back at him, utterly taken aback by the sudden change of topic. “I’d like to do the same for you.”

Erik’s expression is wary, but earnest, and Charles catches himself sifting fleetingly through the man’s surface thoughts, which seems to confirm the genuineness of his words. All the while his eyes are trained on Charles’s face, not leaving it for even a second. Even though being a subject of Erik’s undivided attention used to excite him beyond compare back in the day, now that piercing gaze feels nothing but overwhelming, as if Erik could see his very soul and notice all the darkness lurking in his heart. Charles cannot stand it, he has to look away.

This is exactly why he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see him. Charles doesn’t seem to have been particularly good with people lately, not that he ever actually was. It’s easy to smile to a stranger, to offer a helping hand to someone who looks up to you, but looking in the eyes of those close to him and seeing his true reflection—an overconfident egomaniac, convinced that he has the higher moral ground and is the only one who can make the world a better place, who’s in reality nothing more than a lost little boy, seeking validation and love from others—is at times simply too painful. No wonder he has struggled with getting closer to others, and even if he managed, they always ended up seeing through his poise and leaving him sooner or later. Not that he holds it against them; he would leave himself, too.

Seemingly unaware of Charles’s turmoil, Erik reaches into his pockets. After a moment, he pulls his hands out, clenched into fists, and lifts them in the air, leaning in, resting his elbows back on the table.

“Just one game,” he asks good-naturedly, and his lips slowly form an encouraging smile. “For old times’ sake.”

Hunched slightly over, Charles has to look up to face him. Why Erik is so insistent escapes his comprehension, but there is no harsh judgement nor bitter disappointment which Charles expected to see in those bright mesmerising eyes—nothing but a bit exasperated affection.

That’s not the way it should be. It has always been Charles who’s tried to help Erik find peace, to help him become a better person. And now that they’re sitting at the small Parisian café, it is Charles who’s struggling to find it in himself not to run. After all, he knows what he is, and what he is isn’t worth all that trouble.

And yet there’s something so pleasant about Erik’s mind, almost welcoming, even if all Charles feels is just its very surface, that the telepath cannot pull away. He wants to say no, to ignore Erik long enough for the man to leave, but he eventually relents, slowly reaching and tapping Erik’s left hand. He quickly withdraws, though, despite pleasant tingling in his fingertips that just a quick brush over Erik’s skin has evoked.

Erik smiles, with an excited glint in his eyes, and spins his hand. He slowly unwraps his fingers, revealing a single white pawn.

Charles’s colour.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Erik assures as soon as Charles has snatched the pawn out of his hand, even though his voice sounds rather mischievous.

_ Even if you come in_, Charles hears, clear as day, and it cannot _ not _ be a projection. For a split second, he thinks that maybe he’s just overheard something he’s not supposed to, but he’s been shielding himself from Erik ever since he sensed him, so it must’ve been Erik’s intention for Charles to hear it. Something pangs in his heart, even though Charles is too miserable to get his hopes up, to see it as anything more than just teasing.

But his hope has never needed much to spring back to life.

A small smile spreads on Charles’s lips almost on its own accord. “No, you won’t,” he says, a bit of cheer returning to his voice, and continues in their thoughts, _ Even if I come in. _

Erik grins at him, his eyes warm, and he looks so unguarded—so delightfully open—that Charles’s heart skips a beat. It hits him in this moment that no matter how many decades have passed, how many wrinkles have started to adorn Erik’s face, how many of his hair have already turned to grey, he continues to be as beautiful as he was on the day they met, in the cold Atlantic waters thirty years ago, if not even more so. Charles cannot help but try to mirror Erik’s smile, his stomach twisting into knots. He never expected that he would feel like this again, giddy and excited, flushed with the intensity of Erik’s gaze as his companion doesn’t seem to be able to look away from him, so it is Charles who averts his eyes first.

Erik sets up the board swiftly, his deft fingers placing meticulously all the pieces in their proper places. Charles follows them, mesmerised by the grace of even the smallest of movements. He is used to seeing Erik do that with nothing more than a gentle wave of his hand, but he has brought a wooden set and is forced to set up the game in a more traditional way. They don’t draw unnecessary attention to themselves this way, at least, and Charles appreciates that.

Even so, he cannot help but feel the bitterness seeping into his heart. There would be no need for hiding in the world he once hoped to build, but the dream has been shattered. Much as he loathes himself for this, he cannot refrain from wondering that perhaps prioritising trying to gain the humans’ approval over keeping the mutants he was supposed to take care of safe was never the proper course of action; that he should’ve focused on the school, not his political ambitions. But what is done is done, and all that Charles is left with is the bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach that Raven was right all along.

After all, he did sacrifice his team—_his family_—for the cause which seemed to be less about mutants and more about building his own public persona. Clearly, he lost his touch so thoroughly that he has become what he had once stood so strongly against—a politician focused solely on his own success rather than people he was supposed to serve. It was bound to end in disaster. So many years devoted to the mutant cause, and all of them wasted because of his own vanity and the fantasy of mutants becoming the heroes of humanity.

To think that it might have been different if only he had been less stubborn, not as lost in the vision of the world which was as idealistic as it was impossible to achieve. Perhaps, had there not been a division between the mutants, their efforts could have brought much better results. Maybe Erik was right, and that rupture was meant to weaken them, as it has quite clearly done so.

Leaning away from the board, Erik gives Charles a quizzical look. Even though he isn’t the one with telepathic abilities, he stares at Charles as if he knew exactly what the telepath is thinking. Perhaps he does; perhaps he has similar regrets, Charles muses, still determinedly blocking out Erik’s thoughts. They both wanted to make the world a better place for mutants, even if using drastically different methods, and all of it has been for naught.

Perhaps not all—there is still Genosha which seems to function better than Charles suspected. It may not be a mutant utopia yet, as his friend certainly wanted it to be, but it does provide mutants with the place where they can live free of persecution, given a chance to create their own system. He even remembers a couple of his students with more visible or not so easily reined in mutations choosing to move there after their graduation, something that should go against his goal of mutant-human integration, but deep down Charles felt relief every time one of them found a safe home in Genosha. Erik might’ve had a point while insisting on the separation between mutants and baseline humans, after all.

A quiet snort escapes Charles’s nose, and Erik raises his eyebrows, a corner of his lips rising in a lopsided smile as he asks, “Something’s funny?”

Charles studies Erik for a long moment, his gaze tracing wrinkles which replaced the lines once almost permanently running across his friend’s face. Now, though, despite the years, Erik almost looks younger, his eyes bright and his expression serene, and Charles thinks that he’s falling for him all over again, enticed by the soft humming of Erik’s thoughts, its pull akin to the strength of the magnetic force that the fascinating man before can bend to his will.

“Nothing, just…” Charles sighs and pauses for a moment, trying to find the best way of putting into words a strange paradoxical feeling. He cannot refrain from snorting again as he shakes his head. “I didn’t expect that we would swap places,” he admits at last, an edge of humour to his voice.

“Life’s full of surprises,” Erik murmurs, with smugness written all over his face.

The chessboard momentarily becomes forgotten as Erik holds Charles’s gaze, his eyes flicking to the telepath’s mouth every now and then. Were they alone, in a more secluded place, Charles wouldn’t probably stop himself from reaching out to Erik, but—as it happens—they sit in a public space where any more intimate gestures might be as frowned upon as a display of their abilities.

Charles could just make everyone else look away or think that something completely different is happening, he knows that. Part of him is tempted to do so, yet he doesn’t feel like meddling with all those minds, unsure of how his erratic emotions impact his control; whether he’d be able to draw the line before hurting somebody. Maybe it’s for the better; he’s not sure if he’s actually ready for anything to happen just yet.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Charles says instead, his voice soft, surprising even himself with how blunt his words are.

Perhaps he’s too old and too tired to hide his vulnerability anymore. Perhaps, despite him running away, he doesn’t actually want to be alone. Wallowing in self pity and letting himself be consumed by his pent-up emotions certainly won’t solve anything, he’s perfectly aware of that, and yet, it’s not that easy for him to pull himself out of that dark place. But Erik is here, offering to throw him a lifeline to which Charles so desperately wants to cling.

For a moment, he is afraid of Erik’s reaction, of his possible ridicule of such sappiness, yet Erik only smiles tenderly, and the wave of fondness encompassing at once Charles’s thoughts makes it clear that he must share the sentiment. Once again, Charles finds it hard to shake off the feeling that the scene playing out before his very eyes isn’t real; that he’ll soon wake up, alone in his bed, hating his mind for conjuring images of what he’s always wanted, but will never have. After all, the Erik before him is nothing like the man who left him over and over again, not with the serenity which is practically pouring off of him.

His mind, however, has the achingly familiar tinge to it that Charles isn’t sure he could so easily recreate, not even with the help of his rather remarkable memory. Yet again, the telepath has to suppress the urge to plunge into Erik’s thoughts and allow them to wash over his troubled psyche. It’s almost painful to hold himself back; even so, Charles cannot quell the fear that his presence won’t be welcome. After all, nobody wants a telepath rummaging through their heads.

His throat feels suddenly dry as Charles tries to clear it, his gaze boring into the chess board. Despite his doubts, if Erik’s projection is anything to go by, it seems that he could’ve tried to prompt Charles to do something. Perhaps it does sound too good to be true, but Charles has to ask.

“Could I?”

There’s a swell of mild surprise on the surface of Erik’s mind when he says calmly, “Could you what?”

Charles looks back up at him and finds Erik gazing at him curiously. Although there’s a hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, Charles hesitates. Part of him knows that what he’s about to ask is quite a lot, probably more than he deserves after everything that he’s done. But he cannot help himself.

“Could I—,” he hesitates momentarily, with his heart practically in his throat, “—come in?”

Charles struggles not to drop his gaze, as the world around him seems to have come to a halt. It surprises him how desperate he is to sink into Erik’s mind, even though he hasn’t done so in a terribly long time, and waiting for his friend’s reaction only makes him jittery. What’s worse, Erik keeps a straight face, and the surface of his thoughts brushes against Charles’s calmly, doing very little to help the telepath gauge his friend’s reaction.

Some of Charles’s desperation must be evident in his look—or it could’ve been his voice—because Erik’s expression softens, and he glances down at the chessboard.

“Your move,” he says casually, as if Charles hasn’t just asked him about something as intimate as opening a mental link between them.

The telepath tries to hide his disappointment, clearing his once again awfully dry throat. He shouldn’t be suffering from such disenchantment, not after his gift has been routinely rejected throughout the vast majority of his life. After all, people generally value their privacy quite highly, and Charles really understands that, even though he himself would give anything not to be alone in his own head at the moment.

Scarcely does he have a chance to slip back into the thick darkness of his mind, however, before he feels the deliberate caress of a thought against his consciousness. Another projection, but much gentler than before. _ You can if you’d like_.

Charles finds himself blinking again, and the question escapes his mouth before he can do as much as consciously register asking it, his voice small and vulnerable, “You don’t mind?”

Erik’s gaze is on him again, although this time there is a flicker of something else in those kaleidoscopic eyes, greenish in the warm light of day, something much less peaceful. Regrettably, the odd ripple on the surface of Erik’s mind is gone too fast for Charles to put a finger on what his friend might feel, as Erik takes a deep breath, the playful smile back on his lips.

“I know you won’t cheat, you’re too bloody arrogant for that,” he says teasingly, though there is no actual bite to his words.

Charles doesn’t know if he’s more relieved that Erik seems to be genuinely unbothered by the prospect of Charles’s presence in his mind, or affronted by the suggestion that the only reason why he wouldn’t go as far as to cheat during their always wonderfully engaging games of chess is all due to his arrogance. In the end, his relief wins over, what with the familiar mischievous glint in Erik’s eyes.

“I simply happen to have a moral code, thank you very much,” Charles argues, even though his tone lacks any actual disdain, his hand hovering over the board. He ponders for a moment how he should start this time, and ends up picking the pawn before his queen. With his fingers wrapped around it, he continues, his voice matter-of-fact, “And I find that cheating essentially kills the purpose of the game. After all, it’s hardly any mental challenge to just take a peek into your mind to foresee your intention and adjust my strategy accordingly—”

Even though he quickly realises that he’s started mumbling, it is a gentle touch of Erik’s fingertips to the top of his still extended hand that puts him out of his reverie.

“Charles.” Erik’s voice is tender, yet unyielding. “You can read my mind.”

Despite the reassurance, Charles hesitates, which clearly doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I’d like you to,” Erik adds firmly, his fingers slowly starting to draw comforting patterns over Charles’s dry skin.

As little as it is, this amount of physical contact is enough to make shielding from Erik that much more of a bother, so Charles eventually just lets go, his consciousness instantly washed over with Erik’s thoughts. They are as serene as Charles expected, but there is also a different tinge to them, one that he didn’t really pick up on before.

Affection.

He’s barely able to compose himself enough not to let out a quiet whimper. It’s been ages since he felt anything remotely resembling this; Raven didn’t really allow him into her mind, even when their relationship was much less strained, and with Hank it’s been a different kind of companionship, one that has never included that kind of affection. That has been the void that even the children couldn’t fill, not with their respect and admiration, and even though he loved them—and still does—very dearly, being the authority figure for young minds has always put him in the position hardly allowing for forming equal connections, even when they grew up.

And to think that those are just surface thoughts… Although he’s well aware that he probably shouldn’t be doing that and most certainly will come to regret it later, he feels his mind plunging deep into Erik’s, flowing through the beautiful buzzing stream of consciousness. It won’t last long, Charles is sure of that, so he sets his mind to enjoy that while he still can, before Erik changes his mind and forces him out.

Instead of this anticipated withdrawal of Erik’s consent, Charles is once again met with a playful smile. “Want to know everything all over again?”

Charles can’t help but wince, even though the question hasn’t got any accusatory undertone whatsoever. Despite that, he’s quick to start withdrawing, his thoughts curling tightly around themselves. He hasn’t invaded another person’s mind like that in years, and he has no idea what’s overcome him to act so recklessly, unmindful of Erik’s boundaries.

“Don’t,” Erik says warningly, stopping Charles in his tracks.

He squeezes the telepath’s hand reassuringly, and even though he promptly lets go, his touch lingers, leaving the pleasant tingling sensation in its wake. Charles swallows, his mind still surrounded by Erik’s calming thoughts.

That is the moment he feels it for the first time, something relatively new in the mind that he once was so familiar with. A cool, metal-like surface, of which the tendrils of his ability slid off smoothly, feels as foreign as it is fascinating, and it can only be one thing.

“Shields?,” Charles finds himself asking incredulously.

The mischievous look is back in Erik’s eyes. “I had some practice,” he admits cheekily, though his thoughts get a slightly melancholy tinge that he is clearly struggling to hide.

Charles can’t do much more than stare at his friend. “I—”

“It’s easier for you this way, isn’t it?,” Erik observes lightly, his eyes back on the chessboard as he makes his move. “If there’s something I’d rather you didn’t see, I can take care of that myself.” He once again gazes at Charles, the smile still on his lips. “Other than that, you’re free to rummage around.”

It is difficult to even describe the feelings that one sentence evokes in Charles. It seems like the whole world around him has suddenly brightened, filled with the warmth that Charles has clearly been missing. Rarely has he been given such an explicit permission, a wish even, to allow his telepathy to run free, unchecked and unbound. It’s truly exhilarating, how it feels to let his mind wander aimlessly in the space where he’s very much welcome.

“That is…” Charles’s voice is rough, his throat weirdly constricted in his elation. He soldiers on, however, not minding it that much—the need to express his overwhelming gratitude is much stronger than his self-consciousness. “Thank you, my friend,” he says with a watery smile, reaching across the table to cover Erik’s hand with his own. “It means a lot.”

The softness is back on Erik’s face, his thoughts brushing tenderly against Charles’s, and as surprising as it was for Charles to feel it just moments ago, it slowly becomes a familiar—and very much cherished—sensation. “I know,” Erik murmurs, focusing again on the chessboard.

The game is rather unhurried after that, not that Charles minds. It’s actually a very pleasant reprieve from the mundaneness of his recent routine, and Charles finds himself more relaxed than he’s been in weeks, even before the incident. It feels very nice to stretch his mental muscles while coming up with the suitable strategy, even if his whole heart isn’t exactly in the game.

They are slowly making progress, at first chatting idly about things of little importance, such as the charm of early summer, even in the city as frequently bathed in pouring rains as Paris. There is an undercurrent of worry to Erik’s thoughts, even if he doesn’t voice it, and Charles can tell that he’s not the only one avoiding some more sensitive topics. Instead, they focus mostly on Charles’s stay in the City of Lights so far, the struggles of daily life in Genosha, and the atmosphere at the mansion when it turns out that Erik has recently pay the school a visit. It surprises Charles, but not altogether unpleasantly; after all, it is a good thing that Erik seems to be on good terms with Hank now, even if the circumstances leading to that were rather unfortunate.

Despite the concern swirling somewhere deeper in Erik’s mind, the man keeps steering away from the questions that are clearly pestering him. Charles is grateful for that because he isn’t sure how he would explain what is going on inside his head.

Rather than tackling those topics, the telepath allows his mind to drift, floating freely through Erik’s thoughts. Surrounded by calmness and affection, Charles realizes with a start that he feels at peace for the first time in years. It isn’t until now that he notices how much he was missing that feeling.

Unfortunately, Charles doesn’t get to enjoy that feeling for long. He is about to make his next move when a thought comes to the forefront of his mind—one that demands an explanation for something that has been bugging him distantly for quite a while now. He looks up from the board in time to see Erik’s eyebrows furrowing as he’s observing the progress of their game. The board is already lined up with a bunch of the pieces, both black and white, but the real struggle is only about to begin.

There’s something truly endearing in Erik’s focused expression, in the way his eyebrows are drawn and his eyes flicker about the board with a playful glint, and Charles is pretty certain that the affection must be written all over his face. As much as he wasn’t actually aware of that, he’s been missing this sight deeply. This, and the simple, yet undeniable pleasure of the companionable game of chess.

And yet, the question of the real reason behind Erik sitting at his table right now brings his hopes back down.

“I doubt you came all this way just for a chess match,” Charles says, still smiling lightly, even if his voice comes out a bit strained.

The telepath’s attention is yet again on the board, though his thoughts have already drifted away from strategising. He can’t see Erik’s face, but he feels his intense gaze.

“You’d be surprised,” comes Erik’s quiet answer, which nevertheless manages to take Charles aback with its fervency.

It is still rather unlikely that Erik has travelled across the world solely to play one game, which leaves Charles with a couple of explanations to consider.

“Are you meeting somebody?”

Erik keeps studying him for a long moment, before he finally decides to answer.

“No.”

There is yet another possibility, since Erik has mentioned swinging by the mansion. “Did Hank send you?”

Charles's question hangs in the air for a long moment. The telepath can feel the myriad of thoughts swirling in Erik’s mind as the man tries to figure out what would be an appropriate answer. Hardly comforting, Charles thinks distantly.

“He did say that you’d probably use some company,” Erik eventually admits, caressing a white pawn in his hand thoughtfully, one that he’s just picked up from the board. “But I don’t think he believed that I’d bother to find you.”

“But you did.”

Erik’s attention snaps back to Charles, his thoughts sharpening, his gaze wary. “Clearly.”

“Why?” Charles barely suppresses the urge to look away, afraid of being too much of a bother with all those questions, but he has to know what hides behind Erik’s carefully dispassionate tone.

The waitress chooses that moment to walk up to them, a questioning look on her face. She’s about to ask a question, her thoughts brightening with mild interest at the appearance of an earlier unseen man at the otherwise rather lonely table. She doesn’t get a chance to, however, when Erik simply shakes his head, giving her a polite smile. In the end, she rushes past them, to another table, greeting another guest.

“Why do you think?,” Erik asks, and the waitress is soon forgotten.

Erik’s thoughts continue to be calm, gently lapping against Charles’s mind, and yet the telepath doesn’t fail to notice a shade of worry which colours them. It should be reassuring, he thinks briefly, that somebody still cares about his well-being, more so than he does himself. Somehow, though, it only triggers the anger that lurks deep in his thoughts. Perhaps it’s his pride, feeling wounded at the suggestion that he, Dr. Charles Francis Xavier, the honoured professor of genetics and the creator of the first school for mutants, might need rescuing. Perhaps it’s seeing Erik’s concern as patronizing. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t deem himself worthy of it.

Whatever the reason, Charles cannot stop himself from snapping, “I don’t need help, I’m fine.”

Despite Charles’s sharp voice, Erik doesn’t do as much as flinch, seemingly unbothered by the man’s harsh reaction. His fingernails are drumming against the table as he goes back to contemplating the advancement of their game.

Eventually, Erik decides to speak up. “Charles,” he starts slowly, his voice calm, almost soothing, “you come here every morning, order one black coffee and sit, sometimes for an hour, hour and a half, just idly looking around.”

Erik’s tone isn’t accusatory, he merely states the facts, and yet Charles cannot help but feel a burning stab of shame, as if he was caught doing something he wasn’t allowed to. It’s ridiculous; he’s an adult, he can do whatever he pleases, and there’s nothing wrong with enjoying a morning coffee and revelling in the pleasant surroundings.

Even so, Charles catches himself continuously being defensive as he asks, “How did you know?”

“I’m observant,” Erik says simply, finally making his next move, one of the corners of his lips curling up slightly.

Charles takes a deep breath, hoping to clear his upset mind somewhat. Getting angry doesn’t serve anyone, and neither does it help in finding out the real reason behind Erik’s visit. Charles could just pluck it out of his friend’s mind, but the mere thought of it fills him with a sense of self-disgust.

“I’m just… taking a breather, I suppose,” he allows, reaching to the chessboard. “Enjoying my retirement,” he adds, more of an afterthought than anything else. 

“That’s what I came to see.”

A grimace crosses Charles’s face. “There isn’t much to see, as you’ve noticed.” His voice is as tight as it is bitter.

“Still worth it,” Erik says firmly. “Especially when I can do this.” His hand hovers above the board for a moment, a quick move of one innocent piece, and when the man pulls it back, it doesn’t take Charles more than a quick glance to know that he’s just lost. “Checkmate. I warned you.” There’s pride, glistening in Erik’s eyes, but his thoughts lack an undercurrent of boastfulness which tends to be sparked off by Erik's victories.

Nevertheless, Charles purses his lips, deeply unsatisfied, even though he hardly expected any other outcome. “I’d like a rematch, if you don’t mind.”

“Let me take you to lunch first.” Although Erik’s proposition is rather nonchalant, seemingly unprompted, there is a sense of nervousness creeping in his thoughts.

As if he was hoping to ask, but dreaded that Charles would refuse. But Charles finds himself unable to turn down the offer, in spite of the strong desire to bid Erik goodbye and continue on with his mundane day. 

Charles clears his throat, reminding himself that he only agreed to one game. There is no need for him to entertain Erik, to keep him company when all he wants to do is hide somewhere where he’d be alone, preferably in his Parisian flat, yet he finds himself thinking that maybe this is what he needs right now, a little bit of comfort, and he smiles, a small, but genuine curl of his lips, for what feels like the first time in weeks. 

“Actually, lunch sounds lovely.”


End file.
